


Household Alchemy

by octoberburns



Series: Practical Advice for the Modern Magic User [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Alchemy, Gen, Herbalism, Magical Realism, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21785227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octoberburns/pseuds/octoberburns
Summary: Ardeshir came over once a week, getting ad-hoc lessons and having his life choices questioned in exchange for running errands and doing housework that was difficult for a man in his seventies.
Series: Practical Advice for the Modern Magic User [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/834465
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Household Alchemy

**Author's Note:**

> Something comfortable and low-stakes for my November request. Shoutout to Jadis, whose persistence in requesting another Sajha story has finally paid off.
> 
> Thanks as always to Ashley, Alex, and the rest of the gang. You keep me going.

The buzzer had long stopped echoing through the apartment by the time Ardeshir heard its occupant shuffling up to the door. Hands still jammed into his coat pockets, the amused curve of his smile half-hidden behind a scarf, he waited as the man he had come to visit methodically undid his locks, slid back the deadbolt, and finally pulled open the door.

“Hey, Mr. Lin,” Ardeshir said.

Mr. Lin—Lin Jiahao, an elderly herbalist better described as “opinionated” than “stately”—was shorter than him, and frequently annoyed about it. His hair had gone entirely grey years before; his face was lined with severe wrinkles; his skin, approximately the same tone of warm brown as Ardeshir’s own, was mottled with liver spots and the weathering of age. He narrowed his eyes up at Ardershir from his post in the doorway, studying him for a long moment, and then stepped out of the way and said, “You’re late.”

“Oh, come on,” Ardeshir protested. He walked into the apartment, taking off his gloves and unwrapping his scarf from his face, as behind him Mr. Lin performed the entire unlocking sequence in reverse. “Have you seen the snow out there? You’re lucky I didn’t wipe out and break my neck.”

“Hmm,” said Mr. Lin, in a manner expertly conveying both skepticism and judgement. “I don’t go out in the snow. Got young people like you for that.”

“Uh-huh,” Ardeshir said cheerfully. He hung his coat in the font hall closet and kicked off his boots, lining them up on the shoe rack to dry. “So you don’t get to complain when I’m late.”

“I’m an old man, I’ll complain as much as I like,” Mr. Lin said. He fixed Ardeshir with a piercing look. “Are you sick?”

Self-consciously Ardeshir sniffled. “Just a head cold.”

“You cursed?”

Ardeshir laughed. “I’d better not be.” He tugged down the collar of his shirt, revealing the top edge of the personal warding talisman he had tattooed over his heart. “Or I’ll have to have words with my artist. It’s just a regular cold. I’m getting over it. Not contagious anymore, I promise.”

“We’ll see,” returned Mr. Lin ominously, before pointing one knobbly-knuckled hand in the direction of his living room. “Carpet needs vacuuming.”

Ardeshir bit back a grin and started down the hall. “Got it.”

“Hallway, too!” Mr. Lin hollered after him as he left the entryway.

The vacuum was already sitting in the middle of the floor. Ardeshir pulled the cord out and plugged it in, hitting the power button with his heel. “What?” he called. “Sorry, can’t hear you, the vacuum’s too loud!”

“You’re full of shit!” Mr. Lin yelled back immediately, from what sounded like somewhere in the vicinity of the kitchen. Ardeshir choked on a startled bark of laughter and got down to work.

This particular arrangement had been ongoing for nearly two months now, arrived at through a process of referrals by friends-of-friends in the local witchcraft community. Mr. Lin had emigrated from China in his thirties alongside his brother’s family, and started an herbalist’s shop in Ottawa on a Chinatown side street just five blocks from where Ardeshir practiced witchcraft professionally under the name Sajha. Now semi-retired, he had left most of the maintenance of his still-thriving shop to his second nephew and his wife. Most of what they sold was ordinary herbal medicine—but Mr. Lin himself was an alchemist, highly regarded among his colleagues, and when Ardeshir had come looking for a teacher to help him diversify his skills with herb work, he’d been willing to take him on. Ardeshir came over once a week, getting ad-hoc lessons and having his life choices questioned in exchange for running errands and doing housework that was difficult for a man in his seventies.

He hummed as he vacuumed the living room, idly amusing himself by harmonizing with the motor. Then he moved into the hallway, hauling the vacuum along with him as he sucked up dust from the baseboards. He could hear Mr. Lin rattling around in the kitchen all the while; he was still there when Ardeshir finished the job he’d been assigned, so he unplugged the vacuum, retracted the cord, set it upright at the end of the hall, and wandered in to join him.

“I’m done with the hallway,” he said. “Did you need anything else vacuumed while I’m here?”

Mr. Lin was lifting a large metal tea ball out of a ceramic mug; an assortment of tins and packages were scattered over the counter beside him. “No,” he said. “Drink this. For your cold.”

Ardeshir had spent enough time around witches to instinctively take the mug that was thrust into his hands, but he stopped short of drinking it without question. “What’s in it?”

“Medicine,” said Mr. Lin, in the unhelpful tones of one who knew exactly how useless that answer was.

“Aren’t you supposed to be teaching me this stuff?” Ardeshir said mildly, but nevertheless he lifted it to his mouth and took an experimental sip. It tasted—fine. Medicinal and a bit unpleasant, but he’d had worse.

Mr. Lin gave a satisfied little nod. “I _have_ been teaching you,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve learned. What’s in it?”

Ardeshir sighed, then swallowed another mouthful. “Alright. A head cold is an external condition, with… cold symptoms?” he said, meaning not the common English name for the ailment but the metaphysical temperature associated with an excess of yin in traditional Chinese medicine. “Congestion is cold, right?”

“Keep going.”

“Okay. You said colds and flus are usually wind conditions. So this is a decoction to expel wind cold.” He took another tentative sip, this time letting the liquid roll slowly over his tongue. “Everything in it is either warming or a binding agent. I can taste green tea, and some kind of mint. Liquorice, too, but there’s liquorice in, like, everything.”

Mr. Lin huffed a brief laugh, but he didn’t deny it. “What else?”

“Some kind of ginger. I know that’s warming. And… angelica root?” He took a larger mouthful, swallowing down a third of the mug’s contents. “There’s more in it, but I don’t recognize all the flavours. Definitely very warming, though. Lots of aromatics and spices.”

“Good,” said Mr. Lin. “You’re not completely useless.”

Ardeshir laughed and chugged the rest of the tea. “Give me some credit, I’ve been doing this for years.”

Mr. Lin gave him a look that clearly communicated what he thought of the difference between Ardeshir’s idea of “years” and his own, but relented. “What would _you_ use, for a cold?”

“Cold medicine,” Ardeshir said promptly, setting the mug down with another laugh. “No, sorry. My teacher was Scottish, she’d probably have made me a posset. Boiled milk mixed with wine, usually spiced with cinnamon. My parents…” He pulled a face. “A traditional Iranian remedy for colds is boiled turnips.”

“Turnips.”

“Yep.”

Mr. Lin shook his head. “Good thing you’re getting lessons from me.”

“That _is_ why I’m here,” Ardeshir said reasonably.

“Yes,” said Mr. Lin. He squinted up at Ardeshir for a moment, then said decisively, “Laundry.”

Ardeshir let out a huff of laughter. “You’re not gonna teach me how to make this decoction?”

“Laundry,” Mr. Lin repeated. “The sheets need washing, too. And new ones put on the bed.”

Ardeshir raised his hands in defeat. “Alright, alright, I’m going.”

He was already familiar with Mr. Lin’s washer and dryer. He stripped the bed quickly, threw the dirty sheets into the hamper, and hauled the lot into the bathroom laundry nook. There he sorted the washing into light and dark loads and started the first wash cycle. Then he found a spare set of sheets in the nearby linen closet and walked back to the bedroom. On his way he caught sight of Mr. Lin, shoulders-deep in his hall storage closet, industriously rooting around among mysterious and dusty boxes.

“Need any help there?” Ardeshir called.

“Do your chores, Sajha,” Mr. Lin said, without even looking up.

“Mr. Lin, I’ve told you you can just call me Desh.”

Mr. Lin turned his head just enough to eye him wearily. “Sajha is your witch name. You’re here for alchemy. Do your chores, Sajha.”

“Oh, _fine_ ,” Ardeshir said, and went to make up the bed.

By the time he had finished with that, switched the whites into the dryer, and put the second load of laundry on, Mr. Lin had found what he was looking for in the closet: a stack of intimidatingly thick books, which was sitting on the kitchen table when Ardeshir rejoined him there. Another volume was lying open on the counter, beside the assorted cans, jars, and bags of ingredients that had gone into the decoction Mr. Lin had fed him earlier. The alchemist was standing next to them, and he pointed imperiously at the book the moment Ardeshir walked in.

“Found the recipe,” he said. “Let’s see if you can make a decent attempt.”

Ardeshir came over, looked down at the book, and said mildly, “You know I don’t read Mandarin, right?” But he was already reaching for the first ingredient: the recipe book was illustrated with delicate ink drawings, and it was surprisingly easy to follow them.

It still took him three tries before Mr. Lin pronounced his efforts “passable.” He dismissed Ardeshir to the front hall to put his boots and coat on, meanwhile stuffing a plastic bag full of herbs, roots, and powders in various sample sizes; this he shoved into Ardeshir’s arms before he left the apartment, along with the recipe book and the rest of the tomes from the kitchen table.

Biting down a laugh as Mr. Lin loaded him down, all Ardeshir said was, “I hope I can read these ones.”

Mr. Lin let out the long-suffering sigh of a man who had spent the better part of his life waiting for all the young people in his vicinity to get around to learning Chinese already. “Some of them are English,” he said. “Reasonably acceptable translations. The others I wrote notes in. The recipe book has pictures. Do your reading.”

“I thought I was done with reading assignments when I finished school,” Ardeshir said good-naturedly.

“Well, then you shouldn’t have come to me,” Mr. Lin said briskly as he started undoing all his locks.

Ardeshir grinned. “See you next week, Mr. Lin.”

“Get out of here, you wretch.”

Ardeshir did as he was told. Apparently, he had homework to do.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/october_burns). I have a [blog](https://octoberburns.wordpress.com/). Come chat writing and book recs with me! And if you like my stories, I'd love it if you'd help support my work.


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